


all these beautiful things

by jeien



Category: Kamen Rider Blade
Genre: Gen, Post-Series, Series Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-16
Updated: 2017-02-16
Packaged: 2018-09-24 22:41:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9790325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jeien/pseuds/jeien
Summary: Hajime's first year without him.





	

In the summer, it’s breathless mornings. The heat’s touch stings worse than the bees of the previous season. The whirr of the fan doesn’t help fight off the blanket of humidity draped across every inch of skin. It’s a new menu of fruity drinks and cold salads. It’s the one month break from school. The pile of homework sits on the countertop—more than once a sheet of math or literature is accidentally used as a napkin. It’s the quick succession of the door chime, heralding more customers looking for reprieve from the unrelenting sun. It’s the rush of families in and out the restaurant, the inane conversations and the occasional melodrama. Sometimes, it’s a few familiar faces, convincing them to close up shop early to go to the beach. Then it turns into a small group, full of people he knows and cherishes, heading to a place late in the afternoon. It’s refreshingly cool waters, warm sand between their toes, the salty breeze that grazes the skin every now and then. It’s a bon-fire by the van, letting everyone dry while they roast some marshmallows and other assortment of bad-decision snacks. It’s an evening full of stars that they normally can’t spot in the city—and while the humidity still presses against them, it’s a little easier to breathe.

In the autumn, it’s chasing away the last insects that crawl into the room. The cicadas don’t cry anymore; the birds take their place with a string of chirps just as annoying in the morning. It’s the faint groaning of going back to school, the rush of getting someone to finish their breakfast while they’re still half-asleep, the toss of a backpack left forgotten when there’s only half an hour until classes start. It’s the eventual thought of unpacking the sweaters and light jackets as the cold air settles in. It’s the warm soups and hot coffee on the menu again. It’s the steady improvement of cooking ability that makes people smile. It’s the walk down the park on the way back from buying flowers—as the colors change from healthy greens to austere reds, yellows, oranges—where he has to keep looking straight ahead and not to the side where a smiling image sits on a certain bench. It’s the return to the restaurant’s usual faces: back again for dates, for lunch breaks, for a little self-indulgence after a good day. It’s another jibe at his trench coat, weathered and well-worn. It’s the suggestions to buy other things to wear and the reluctance to let the old thing go—because it was a piece of time back then, when he was still around. 

In the winter, it’s helping set up the space heaters in the restaurant. The living space upstairs is too small for a kotatsu, but no one particularly minds. It’s the frosted windows and the sharp air around them, bitingly cold. It’s the first snowfall that’s pristine and nostalgic; the image of a dying man, holding out a photograph of his family, sometimes appears within the growing mound of snow outside his small window. It’s the forced shopping trip for thicker sweaters, better jackets, durable shoes. The trench coat hangs on the hook of his bedroom door. It’s the rich, filling meals: Western holiday staples in Japanese portions. It’s decorating the restaurant in strings of colored lights and fake, red plants. It’s setting up an artificial tree, dressing it with shiny globes, shiny stretches of things called tinsel and, for some reason, a lengthy stretch of stringed popcorn. It’s going out alone to buy presents for the first time: something fit for a mother, her growing daughter, their friends. It’s discovering that Christmas time is apparently just as much a holiday for lovers as it is for family—the hollow ache makes it hard to breathe and it’s almost like the summer when he left. It’s the exchange of gifts one day. It’s the waiting for the new year and the little rituals it entails in the next. It’s getting ready for the first shrine visit of the year and paying respects. It’s wishing, within the next twelve months, for him to return.

In the spring, it’s a chorus of sneezes. Waves of patrons wearing surgeon-like masks filter in and out of the restaurant—they start to carry a stock of them and various allergy medications as a courtesy for those unfortunate enough to forget them. It’s finally being able to hang laundry on the line in the backyard again, letting it soak in as much sunlight as it could. It’s the wind that rustles the growing leaves fondly after all those months of bare branches. It’s the blooming of flowers: tulips, camellias, daffodils, pansies, hyacinths, primrose. It’s going to a high school graduation ceremony and celebrating the achievement back at the restaurant, after they had closed a little earlier than normal for the occasion. It’s cleaning the upstairs, packing away the winter clothes, bringing out the lighter shirts and sweaters, and getting the fabled trench coat off its hook. It’s walking with someone for their first day of school, bantering with them to ease their nerves, and ruffling their hair before they run through the gates to get to class. It’s walking home, taking that same autumn road as before. It’s sitting on the bench, right underneath a cherry blossom tree that finally reached a full bloom.

It’s closing his eyes, letting the breeze caress his skin. It whispers words to him, in a voice that sounded painfully familiar, and he can already conjure up the smile and half-moon eyes in his mind. He keeps his eyes closed to preserve the illusion just a little longer.

_We saw a lot of beautiful things this past year, didn’t we Hajime?_

“We did, Kenzaki,” Hajime murmurs to himself, so quietly that not even the wind could hear. “We did.”


End file.
